Ешь, молись, люби

Chapter 17

           Istoppedeatingmeat(forashorttime,anyway)aftersomeonetoldmethatIwas"eatingthefearoftheanimalatthemomentofitsdeath."SomespaceynewagemassagetherapisttoldmeIshouldwearorange-coloredpanties,torebalancemysexualchakras,and,brother-Iactuallydidit.IdrankenoughofthatdamnSaint-John’s-wortteatocheerupwholeaRussiangulag,tononoticeableeffect.Iexercised.Iexposedmyselftotheupliftingartsandcarefullyprotectedmyselffromsadmovies,booksandsongs(ifanyoneevenmentionedthewordsLeonardandCoheninthesamesentence,Iwouldhavetoleavetheroom).

           Itriedsohardtofighttheendlesssobbing.Irememberaskingmyselfonenight,whileIwascurledupinthesameoldcornerofmysameoldcouchintearsyetagainoverthesameoldrepetitionofsorrowfulthoughts,"Isthereanythingaboutthissceneyoucanchange,Liz?"AndallIcouldthinktodowasstandup,whilestillsobbing,andtrytobalanceononefootinthemiddleofmylivingroom.Justtoprovethat-whileIcouldn’tstopthetearsorchangemydismalinteriordialogue-Iwasnotyettotallyoutofcontrol:atleastIcouldcryhystericallywhilebalancedononefoot.Hey,itwasastart.

           Icrossedthestreettowalkinthesunshine.Ileanedonmysupportnetwork,cherishingmyfamilyandcultivatingmymostenlighteningfriendships.Andwhenthoseofficiouswomen’smagazineskepttellingmethatmylowself-esteemwasn’thelpingdepressionmattersatall,Igotmyselfaprettyhaircut,boughtsomefancymakeupandanicedress.

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